


Barefaced

by playwithdinos



Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Arlathan setting, Dubious Consent, Dubious consent is not between Lavellan and Solas, F/F, F/M, Post Trespasser, Slavery, reference to noncon
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-09-06
Updated: 2016-11-05
Packaged: 2018-08-13 08:45:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 18,116
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7970398
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/playwithdinos/pseuds/playwithdinos
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She is a slave in the service of Andruil with one arm, without a memory or even a name to call her own. Through a fluke of circumstance, she has obtained a tentative position as bodyguard to Andruil’s wife, the newest Evanuris Ghilan’nain, and it is all she can do to keep her head down and herself out of sight, and hope she will be forgotten about.</p><p>But things are changing in Arlathan; Mythal is raising her General to the ranks of the Evanuris, and Andruil and Ghilan’nain must entertain him in their home as all of Elvhenan celebrates his upcoming ascension. He arrives, barefaced and solemn, and so utterly unlike the Huntress and her Wife that the people are beginning to talk of what it means, to be raised so high.</p><p>Worst of all, this Wolf of Mythal looks at the one armed slave like he’s seen a ghost.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. A Slave Like You or I

**Author's Note:**

> Full disclosure: while I started thinking about this project long before I started reading [Feynite's Looking Glass](http://archiveofourown.org/works/4867676/chapters/11157401), I think it's rather difficult not to be at least influenced by it, if not outright inspired, while writing any sort of Arlathan setting. I have made strides to keep my setting separate from hers, mostly because I think this story required a different time frame than Looking Glass does so by that alone it's going to be different enough. I think some similarities are ultimately inevitable, even though we are different writers with different stories. I greatly admire her work, so if you haven't, you should definitely check it out!
> 
> Alright. So I started writing this... ages ago, with the intention of fully completing it before publishing and saving it for Dragon Age Big Bang. So I'm already several chapters in, and I haven't posted anything in a while, so I thought I would give posting this a go, as there was some interest expressed on tumblr when I mentioned this was in the works.
> 
> As for the notes on dubcon, please note that this is a setting with slavery. There is nothing explicit, but dubcon/noncon is heavily implied more than once. For clarification, find me on [tumblr](http://dinoswrites.tumblr.com/).
> 
> Beta'd by the lovely [valyrias](http://archiveofourown.org/users/valyrias/pseuds/valyrias).

The air around her hums against her skin, and she knows that is strange but not why.

She is standing in a forest, surrounded by trees so tall that no matter how long she stares she cannot see where their reaching ends and the sky begins. She has never seen anything so tall in her life, she knows—but _why_ she is certain eludes her. There is snow all around her, a soft blanket that coats the earth beneath her feet, toes bared but she feels no chill. It falls from the muted grey far, _far_ above her in delicate flakes that meander through as they drift to the ground. Almost reluctantly.

She raises her left arm to catch one. She hears the click of metal and the whir of gears, and she tears her eyes from the softness of the world around her to see the metal of her left arm—hard lines, gaps where light pours through. Dark and dirty, harsh and _sharp_ against the fog and the snow, metal fingers that curl with a twist of what remains of her left arm.

The snowflake lands on the metal palm, and does not melt.

This is normal, she thinks, even though something twists in her at the sight of it. Normal, but perhaps not welcome.

She lowers the arm to her side and looks again at her surroundings. Wholly unfamiliar in every way—and she knows this because she knows the _arm_ is familiar, so she can trust that she has no memory of this place.

Or of how she got here. Or—

Anything. Anything at all.

She closes her eyes and focuses on breathing for a moment.

Memory, she thinks, seems to be the problem.

When she opens her eyes again, she has to blink away snowflakes that have landed on her eyelashes. They are beginning to fall in thick clumps now, as if gathering together for comfort. They are wet and they melt on her skin where they land—and _then_ she shivers, feeling the cold seep into her skin, into her toes.

“Great,” she mutters to herself, the sound of her voice muffled by the thick air. She checks herself over and takes stock of what she is carrying—two dual-blades, the left with a modified hilt that clearly is meant to attach to the hand. No food, water, or supplies of any kind. Only hunting leathers and her breath making clouds in the air around her.

So, waiting around for either her memory to catch up with her or for someone to find her is out of the question. The chill slips deeper into her skin the longer she stands—movement will help keep her warm, a little. She only needs to pick a direction.

There are tracks in the snow at her feet, but they are quickly being covered by the fall from above. She kneels to touch them, and finds a trace of warmth at the tips of her living fingers. So subtle she might just be imagining it.

A single line of tracks slipping in between the trees. A male’s, probably, footing even and steady. Wearing light armour, judging by their depth. They start almost exactly where she is standing now, as if whoever made them appeared from thin air. There are no others, not even her own, and while she might choose a thousand other ways to walk, none show evidence of another’s passage.

She stands and follows them with the light feet of one who has walked in woods her whole life. _Not these woods,_ however. And the wind is picking up.

Soon the snow is so thick she can barely see the hand in front of her face. She clutches her clothing to herself—she is woefully ill-equipped for the cold, which makes her wonder not for the first time why she is even _out here_.

Wherever _here_ is.

She loses the tracks quickly—with this snow, they were bound not to stay for long. She searches for other evidence of someone passing—the trees nearby bear no marks made for guidance, to avoid getting lost in the storm. Meaning either she has lost the person she is tailing completely, or they have no intent of retracing their own steps.

 _Not coming back for me_ , she thinks. Which means either they don’t know they are being followed, or she was left to freeze to death.

That thought is sobering, and she finds her steps faltering. She slows until she is standing in the snow, unable to even see the trees around her—lost in a haze of white on white, her body barraged by howling wind and flakes of snow that feel more like shards of ice. She tries to breathe, tries to make herself warm again—but the metal of her left arm is sticking to her skin, cold enough to bite through the numbness that has crept to her bones, and she bites back a sob instead.

She cannot stop. She _cannot._ No one is coming for her.

But she finds herself unable to move forward, either.

Her knees begin to tremble, and her lungs burn with the cold.

She almost falls, but then she hears a voice.

“There you are.”

She looks up, brow furrowed in confusion. A young man stands in front of her, barely more than a boy. He looks even more washed out than the world around him, and she thinks that his broad hat will be blown away by the wind **.** But it does not move; it does not react to the storm that rages around them.

She opens her mouth, but finds herself unable to speak.

That is when she falls—and he catches her. He is solid enough, she supposes, although his body seems to give off little warmth.

“I am sorry. I couldn’t come sooner,” he tells her, pulling her close. “I had to wait until he sent me away—he can’t know you’re here, yet.”

She clings to him, his body her only shelter from the elements. _Who_ , she wonders, and her lips form the words but her throat cannot make the sound.

He gathers her up in his arms, and she does not fight him. Certainly, she lacks the strength, but—she knows somehow that she would not, even if she could. He walks, and he makes no sound in the snow. Perhaps that is only the howling of the wind, the flurry of the blizzard around him that prevents her from hearing it.

“Don’t sleep,” he tells her when she begins to drift away. “I won’t be able to find you again.”

He takes her to a cave—she wouldn’t know it for one without him, the entrance concealed by thick branches weighed down by snow and a heavy hide coated with earth and leaves. He ducks under the hide, taking care to shake as little snow from it as he can, and when it falls behind him the sound of the wind is dulled, and the air is so warm she gasps at the way it nearly sears her frozen skin.

There are people arguing, and they are silenced by the sound she has made.

“My friend needs help,” the boy holding her says, in a very different language than he spoke before.

She opens her eyes and blinks, warily, at where he has brought her. The cave is little more than an animal den, probably a bear’s, though it has long since been abandoned. She can see the marks in the earth where hands with tools have made it larger, more suitable for people to hide in—with more clarity than she can see the people themselves, their forms wavering in the light of the fire.

She blinks again, and they solidify. Or rather, some of them do—a woman stands, her arms crossed over her chest, and two children hide behind her, covered in a mountain of furs. Their skin is dark as ebony, and at first all she can see of them is their eyes, the gleaming green circles of their pupils in the half-light of the cave. Next to the woman hovers a spirit, and it is almost a flame itself, flickering gold and crimson light that scatters across the cave walls.

“Compassion,” the spirit says. “What have you brought us?”

“Compassion?” the woman parrots. She looks at the spirit next to her with wide eyes. “You know him, Vigilance? Can we trust him?”

Vigilance rolls its shoulders. “I have not met _this_ spirit before,” it clarifies. There are imitations of eyes on what might be its face, and they gleam like a triad of tiny suns as they narrow.

“You’re—Compassion?” The woman takes a tentative step forward.

The core of Vigilance seems to flare, bright and hot, and the woman stops.

“She will not hurt you,” Compassion promises. “She is like you.”

He is addressing Vigilance, who scoffs at the remark.

“She is little more than a shuddering _wreck_ ,” it replies, “and _you_ are the type easily won over by a few scrapes and bruises.”

The woman comes forward again, although she still glances at Vigilance as if for permission. “What’s your name?”

She finds herself blinking, slowly, water droplets running from the ice that has melted off her lashes. She _knows_ it, she thinks, but it seems there’s a fog over her thoughts when she tries to recall it.

This should be alarming, she thinks. This should be _very_ alarming. Worse than not recalling how she came to this place, even.

But all she can feel is a hand on her brow, a bright flame against her skin. She hisses, and the woman _tuts_ softly.

“Set her by the fire,” she instructs, and her voice is so strong and certain that even Vigilance does not protest.

Compassion lays her down on a bed of furs the children hastily roll out—one of them gasps when they see her metal arm, no longer curled against her body.

“What happened to your arm? Did June make that?” the boy asks, awed.

His mother hushes him severely, although she cannot make out the words. The flames are almost directly in front of her but they seem so distant—she finds she cannot keep her eyes open. She is aware of hands pulling at her clothes, of another argument starting up. Firm voices and urgent touches, soft furs and a brightness at the edge of her vision that is not the fire.

She thinks Compassion is trying to say something to her as she drifts off, but she cannot make out the words. But she thinks that it’s not so bad if she sleeps now—she’ll stay right there, right where he put her by the fire.

She can’t be lost if she just... closes her eyes for a while, right?

 

It is the third week of spring, and petitioners are flocking to Andruil’s temple.

The grand halls are more brightly lit than usual, the horns and teeth on the trophies that line the walls gleaming with an even deadlier shine. Even the glittering stones on the mosaic floors are so polished that to tread on them with working feet would mean certain death. Only the nobility who have arrived so far are walking the brightly lit passageways, and accompanying them are only those slaves whose attentions are absolutely necessary, all bowed heads and whispered assurances.

Last minute preparations for guests are in such full swing that all of Andruil’s slaves seem to be flinging themselves every which way to make everything _just perfect_. The back halls they use are brimming with elves of every shape and size, the air above them so thick with spirits that it is positively humming.

Everyone is carrying _something_ , and odds are that something is large, unwieldy, and can barely be seen around. A slave with one arm of flesh and one of metal that glitters with all the colours of the sunset slips among them with practised ease, a tray of food balanced on her good arm high above her head. The going is frustratingly slow—normally when Andruil is away on a hunt, anyone of consequence has gone with her and there is no one to stop her from using the spacious if intimidating main halls.

By the general griping of those she passes, everyone else is thinking the same thing.

“Mythal has killed the Titan!” a brash spirit overhead proclaims. “She will raise the general who aided her to the ranks of the Evanuris! He will tour the lands of Elvhenan and bask in the glory of the people before his ascension”

“So we have to host every elf of consequence from here to Arlathan!” a tall elf with a particularly large burden of vegetables snaps back.

“Raised from dirt to the likes of the Gods,” another elf sighs wistfully, hoisting her basket of linens higher on her hip. “From a slave like us to—to one of _them_.”

A particularly bitter spirit whirls back from up the hallway just to snarl down, “Hardly like you and I if he is among Mythal’s chosen! I find it hard to believe her White Wolf is on his knees scrubbing floors in between subduing the children of stone.”

“I don’t see you scrubbing any floors,” someone shoots back, and the whole hallway devolves into a few moments of shoving with elbows and toes, for lack of space to do anything else.

 _A slave is a slave,_ the one armed woman thinks, but she keeps her head down and her thoughts to herself as she nimbly avoids limbs and tempers that flare and spark in the cramped passage.

She slips out into a hallway no less grand than the other through a hidden panel in the wall. This hallway only has one door—made of a metal so polished and so red that it looks like freshly spilled blood.

The hallway is lined with mirrors, appearing flat at first glance but as one passes them the surface of each ripples, twisting the image it reflects. Some only make her appear shorter or taller, but in some the copper of her skin is shock white, then opal black, and the green of her eyes might reflect back at her as orange, yellow, or brilliant gleaming sapphires set into a face made of metal and stone.

Others still she passes and she is coated in blood, in great wounds, a spear run clean through her chest, an arrow in her eye. Sometimes she is dressed as she is, in simple dark hunting leathers, and other times in wretched, ragged clothes. Once, in a dress the colour of clotted blood. In one, she appears with two arms of flesh. But she knows where that one is, and she refuses to look at it.

In each, Andruil’s _vallaslin_ is so red on her face that it almost burns.

There are two elves guarding the door. They do not glance once at the myriad of reflections that hound her steps—they do not even glance at her as she approaches the door, staring straight ahead.

She slips through the door—touching it with her metal hand, so she does not have to feel its too-slick surface—and it closes behind her, silently.

It is a garden rather than a bedchamber that greets her—her toes find a mosaic made from well-rounded river stones, impossibly gentle grass growing between them. Trees grow in a geometric pattern throughout the space, their branches reaching up and twining to form something of a roof of branches, leaves, and blood red flowers far above her head.

Sunlight filters through, and as she passes underneath flower petals fall and land in her dark curls, tickle the shaved parts of her scalp. She gives up on shaking them out with an annoyed sigh.

She passes through the constructed forest with ease, stepping over small bubbling streams that flow in spite of the ground’s absolute flatness, and she arrives at something imitating a clearing, with a waterfall and a deep, clear pool.

On a bed that appears to have been made entirely of animal furs sleeps a woman of impossible paleness, her hands reaching to the empty half of the bed. A crown of antlers lies discarded in the grass beside the bed, along with a dress made of a red silk that glitters in the sunlight like a fine wine.

She sits on the bed and the woman stirs. Her exposed skin—nearly all of her, she has thrown off the furs in the warmth of the morning air—glitters like a polished stone in the sunlight. She moves just enough for a blue eye so pale it seems to be little more than a pupil to peer out from a curtain of starlight hair; slanted, monolid, white lashes.

It’s enough to catch her breath in her throat.

“Good morning, my lady,” she offers, softly, once she has gathered her wits about her.

Ghilan’nain rises, her movements fluid, languid. Reluctant—she is no early riser, this Evanuris. She rolls herself over onto her back, which curves perfectly as she stretches. Her face is small and round, her neck slender and elegant, and even with her lipstick smeared from last night her every movement is utterly perfect.

The Evanuris murmurs something incoherent, her voice low and warm. She blinks slowly, then tilts her head just enough to draw attention to the curve of her neck. “I woke and you had left me.”

She smiles in return, but she purposefully drops her gaze and sets the plate on the bed between them. “Your wife returns this morning,” she says, and she rises to collect Ghilan’nain’s clothing from the floor.

The halla mother hums thoughtfully—a sound like the purr of a great, dangerous cat. “But she is not here _now_.”

She takes the dress and turns to an armoire grown from a living tree. She throws it open and begins to sort through until she finds a robe of a soft pink silk. She hears the Evanuris standing behind her, the rustle of her feet on the soft grass, and lets out an exasperated sigh.

“You need to eat,” she tells her, flatly, without even glancing over her shoulder. “Or your wife will have my head for neglecting your nourishment, and where would we be?”

Ghilan’nain laughs.

She closes the armoire, robe in hands, about to turn, her lips open to let loose another stern remark. But Ghilan’nain snakes her arms around her waist, and she can feel the Evanuris’ breath on the skin of her neck, a ghost of her lips, a reminder and a promise.

She bites her lip. The Goddess laughs again—darker, lower.

“Andruil is not here,” she says, and her lips _just_ brush against skin, against flesh raised like a cornered animal’s hackles. “But you are.”

She closes her eyes. Her lips move, but her voice is stuck somewhere in her throat.  She can feel Ghilan’nain’s breath on her skin, can _hear_ the soft sound of lips parting, right before the delicate press of teeth to her flesh.

She moves to pull away, then. But the Evanuris only holds her tighter, her teeth pressing deeper—hard enough she might draw blood, with just a little more pressure.

The doors at the far end of Andruil’s chambers are flung open, and a flock of birds takes to the air. They screech, their wingbeats flurried and loud enough that even Ghilan’nain is startled.

The Evanuris’ grip loosens, and that is enough for her to pull away.

By the time Andruil appears between the winding trees, Ghilan’nain is again seated on the bed, her robe thrown loosely over her shoulders while she picks at the food on the plate with her fingers.

Andruil sweeps in like flame during a drought—her hunting leathers are anything but simple, and here in her stronghold where she wants to be seen they burn like the fires her father ignites in his rages. Where Ghilan’nain is languid and warm, Andruil is _burning_ , bright, more like a hot sword about to be tempered in water than anything else.

She sweeps her wife to her feet with hands dark as night, and kisses her with lips painted the colour of clotted blood. Ghilan’nain responds with lazy movements, a laugh low in her throat, and where Andruil touches her with impatience, with unreserved longing, each press of her skin in return is deliberate, delicate.

“ _Ma vhenan_ ,” Andruil hisses against her wife’s lips.

“I am lost without you,” Ghilan’nain murmurs, her kisses drawing lower.

Andruil bares her neck, and Ghilan’nain bites it until she bleeds.

Neither of them give any notice to the one-armed slave watching from behind a tree. Forgotten, she lets go of the breath she has been holding and retreats, slowly. She does not turn her back until she can no longer see them through the trees.

When she is safely back through the doors, away from the stares of the guards that flank it, unmoving still, she reaches up to touch her neck where it is tender, where a bruise is slowly forming, with shaking fingers.

In a mirror to her left, it appears as a gaping hole, a festering wound.

She shakes her head to clear it, and her steps carry her back to the slaves’ passages, hurried, impatient.

“Oh, there you are! Wait!” a voice far above her head calls when she begins to slip through the crowds again.

She can’t stop—she’s long since learned that planting her feet will only earn her a good buffeting from the press of bodies around her. She looks up, thinking that the frantic calling coming from the spirit is— _more so_ than usual. Her stomach twists into knots at the sound of it.

Worry finds her easily, its shifting form the colour of grass beginning to dry out in the summer heat. It wrings its hands as it hovers above her, its many, many yellow eyes widened into dozens of tiny circles on its narrow face.

“I can’t find... _you know_.”

 _That’s all?_ The question dies in her throat, even as relief sweeps over her. She knows better than to tease Worry when it gets like this.

“It’s an exciting day,” she reassures it, gently, even as she is forced to duck to avoid being hit in the head with a particularly large wooden beam someone is carrying over their shoulder. “Lots of new people. I’m sure it’s just wandered off.”

Worry huffs, and little flares of indignation ignite from its core. “I would appreciate it if it would not just _wander off_ , today of all days,” it complains, “my hands are full enough!”

“I’ll take care of it,” she promises over her shoulder, before she loses sight of Worry behind a basket full of grain.

She slips through the crowd with ease, catching snippets of conversations and arguments that happen all around her, in the air above her head, but it is still a relief when she finds a ladder, a hole in the floor.

She slides down the ladder without a glance at what lays beneath, and lands with a splash on a damp ground in a dark, dark passage.

The only light comes from intermittent holes in the floor above, and it takes a moment for her eyes to adjust. She catches the glinting eyes of things that move in the dark—not entirely elvhen, not any more—but she draws the blades from her back and their threatening growls are silenced. She watches and waits for them to move on, seeking weaker prey, before she moves on.

The tunnels below Andruil’s temple are expansive and ill-used. There are things down here long left for dead, and she’s not entirely certain all that moves down here is still technically alive. The air is stale, and carries an unnatural warmth that makes sweat gather on her brow, linger on the back of her neck.

Her eyes cannot make out much in the dark, and she relies on memory alone to tell her where to go. The passages down here do not mirror those above—they twist and turn with some whim that is their own, and she is certain that the maze has to be bigger than the temple itself. It’s entirely too easy to get lost down here—even the spirits don’t walk these paths. They are too bright, too easily stalked.

Beneath her feet is something in between water and mud, thick and clinging to her leather bound feet as she moves. She picks through the slickness, knowing by now the places that are deep enough that she will just _keep sinking_ if she steps there. Spent many hours testing them with a long stick, once, while Worry called for her in the halls above.

The water and the smoothness of the walls echoes the noises from above, eerily. Unevenly, too—as if the passage itself has a whim, as if it particularly enjoys gossip, or one or two words repeated over and over until they become a whisper, a chill running up her spine.

“The wolf is coming,” comes the echo of the Brash spirit’s voice from far above, all around. “The wolf is coming, the wolf is coming...”

She walks until she finds the ladder she is looking for. The entire time she feels as if something is watching her, stalking her, but she walks with her head high and her weapons drawn, and nothing attacks her. Much like the rest of Andruil’s temple.

This ladder is old, and she’s wondered before if it’s held together by wishes and dreams—it certainly looks like it has no business still being in one piece, all rotten and twisted at the base. She’s not entirely certain how it stays in place—where it is attached to the wall it is usually broken or charred or otherwise maimed, and it’s far enough off the floor of the basement passage that she has to climb the wall to reach it, finding purchase in holes she carved with her daggers long ago.

She climbs, and she finds the ladder’s frail rungs with a sure grip. She pulls herself out of the basement, away from the eyes and gnashing teeth that she can’t see, and into a different darkness. The ladder is almost completely enclosed—a secret passage, perhaps, although for what purpose it originally served she can’t quite tell. She thinks it must have been heavily used, once, to see so much abuse—maybe forgotten about, when Andruil’s whims changed and her stronghold warped with them.

If she’s honest with herself, she’d rather have the basement and the watching eyes. Feeling the wall brushing against her back with every movement, having to keep her elbows tucked close to her body as she climbs, her palm begins to grow clammy, her hand begins to shake.

It’s a relief, always, when she emerges. To clear air, bright skies, and the wind whipping her hair about.

The sun is bright, well above the horizon now. She stands at the height of Andruil’s temple and covers her flesh arm with her metal one to protect it from the wind, still with a hint of winter’s bite as it whirls around her.

She looks around her at Andruil’s vast, sprawling lands—she sees no sign of any other settlement no matter how long she looks, how intensely she squints at the horizon. It is all thick, dense brush—she sees flocks of birds, an entire flight of gryphons with only the clouds as their backdrop. Great trees shake far below with the movement of something truly massive, but she cannot pick out its shape from so far away.

There is still snow coating the distant mountains. She wonders what passes lie beyond, for those desperate enough to wander the world without use of an eluvian. Not for the first time, she wonders about the family she found all those months ago—if they’ve made it to those mountains. If they’ve slipped away from Andruil’s vast forests, to seek refuge in the places even the Evanuris will not wander.

A deep, rumbling voice shakes her from her thoughts. “I have told you before that I prefer you not take that path.”

She turns, and there is Security. It is by far the largest of the spirits that live under Andruil’s roof—in its case, it is more comfortable _on_ the roof—but its form today is even more massive than normal. It appears in something that is almost draconic. _Almost_ , she thinks, for a more accurate imitation would be truly blasphemous. The jaw isn’t quite right, and it has no impressive wings to spread and threaten, but it has a long neck and sharp teeth besides.

“Security,” she greets, tilting her head to the side. “I’m looking for—”

“I am aware,” it tells her. It puffs up, all ruffled like it’s covered in imitations of feathers instead of scales. “I cannot see the depths of the temple. You should not wander them.”

She is familiar enough with Security to know the low, stern set of its tone to be concern, not a threat. She smiles in the face of its posturing, their friendship too easy now for her to pretend at being afraid of it.

It blusters when she does not relent. Its three massive eyes draw down at once to her neck and narrow at what they find there.

She flinches as if the spirit’s gaze has wounded her. She moves her hair in an attempt to cover the mark left by Ghilan’nain, but the wind buffets it away.

“Your position here is tenuous enough,” it reminds her, not without softness in its tone. “You are forced to take too many risks already.”

 _No one’s forcing me_ , she wants to say. But she’s found it’s useless to lie to spirits, and her own conflicted feelings on the matter are so muddled that even she can’t figure out the truth.

Its slick, silvery body uncoils, then, and it lowers its face so that it is close enough for her to touch. She opens her arms and allows the spirit to press against her—it feels like a sudden summer breeze made nearly solid, a spark of affection and a surge of protectiveness all at once.

It pulls back when she feels sufficiently safe, comforted. But only just enough—it keeps its great head level with her, so she can look it in the eye without craning her neck.

“It shocks me that you have not been hidden away,” it tells her, sparks of white behind its eyes. “With so many of Mythal’s subjects arriving, one is bound to recognise you.”

She smiles, then. “A roundabout way of saying you’re hoping someone will come and rescue me from all this?”

It shifts, awkwardly, and it glances uneasily at her _vallaslin_. “You are stolen property,” it reminds her, although it lingers distastefully on the word _property_. It comes across as more conflicted about slavery than most of the spirits that serve Andruil—possibly why it spends its time up here, alone. Possibly why it is Security, instead of something else. “There will be trouble if one of Mythal’s nobles decides to reclaim you.”

She shrugs, then pats its nose in some attempt at comfort. “I don’t see much point in trading a master I know how to deal with for one I don’t remember. Can’t imagine anyone else has much use for a one-armed slave.”

It nudges her with its nose. “Someone made your other arm,” it tells her. “To help you protect yourself.”

She clenches her left fist—glittering and bright, full of magic, grafted to her flesh so tight that it cannot come off. This one isn’t the same, and although functionally it’s more like an arm of flesh than her old one she finds herself unable to look at it, most of the time.

“And Andruil was kind enough to have this one made for me.” She does not mean to sound as bitter as she does—her tone sharp, biting.

Security pays her no mind. It withdraws from her, its great neck craning up until the spirit is at its full height. It looks into the distance with a wariness that makes it seem impossibly ancient—older still than this temple, maybe—and when it speaks again, it seems distant.

“The Wolf has arrived,” it tells her. “He is a beacon to the people—bright, shining. He will be awaiting Andruil’s reception, but it will not come until tonight. You should begin your search there.”

She nods her thanks, but as she turns to head back to the ladder Security winds its long, glittering tail over the hole.

“It will be quicker, and _safer_ ,” it chides her, “to take the main stairs.”

“Not if someone catches me where I am not supposed to be,” she argues. “We’re not to use the main halls today, Security. You know that.”

Security’s eyes gleam with amusement. It extends its claws to her, and she sees a single glittering scale on the tip of one, like a delicate sliver of diamond. It touches her cheek, and it stays there even as the Spirit withdraws.

“You may walk where you like,” it tells her, and the rumble of its voice makes the scale grow warm on her skin. Then, with some urgency, it adds, “You should hurry. It is very young—many would despair if it is discovered.”

With Security’s scale firmly in place, she takes the main stairs at its back—through gilded, gleaming doors that are far too small for the spirit to pass through.

The stones under her feet are smooth, round, and they have no brilliant colours but they glisten as if they’re at the bottom of a shallow stream on a summer’s day. The walls here have a living adornment, an assortment of birds of prey roosting on ironbark trees that grow so close together that it’s unclear whether they sprout from the walls or make them up. Their eyes glitter with unnatural intelligence, beaks and talons curving with a sharpness that glints like metal, and she has no name to give any of them—some as small as a common kestrel, many more with a wingspan longer than she is tall.

Normally passing this way would guarantee at least one diving for her arm or her head, sometimes even her eyes. Ghilan’nain has made them all to appease Andruil, to attempt to keep her here, and not a one of them is anything but vicious. But Security’s scale is warm on her skin, and the birds ignore her all the way down the spiralling staircase.

She is unused to walking the main halls without any sort of bustle—even the highest ranking of Andruil’s slaves have vacated them today. She passes a few nobles—their allegiances aren’t plain on their faces like the slaves, but she catches glimpses of garnets on sashes, dangling from ears or trailing on the hems of dresses. Andruil’s nobles wear clothing that mimics armour, and they display weapons on their belts and backs with the ease of those accustomed to using them. Not that anyone could have any possible use for a solid gold bow with a string of freshwater pearls, or arrows that writhe like snakes in their quiver.

There are a small number of nobles who clearly follow the other Evanuris present, but she cannot distinguish between them without openly gaping. They are the ones who stare at the creatures lining the walls—mounted and stuffed or otherwise—with veiled unease, and if they bear any their weapons are small and easily concealed.

There are smiles aplenty—condescending, predatory, appeasing. She has never seen so many teeth bared at once since she has come here. She finds herself immensely grateful for Security’s protection—and equally baffled as to why her search has brought her to these halls.

The doors to Andruil’s throne room are open, ostensibly for receiving guests and placations from her nobility. Never mind that the throne itself is empty—Andruil and Ghilan’nain will be inseparable until dinner, at the earliest. She slips through them, gilded ironbark in the shape of a hawk’s wings, and then around the periphery of the room, habit drawing her to the shadows there.

She ducks behind one of the massive ironbark trees that ring the throne room, their branches reaching tall and twining together to make the domed roof. The late morning sunlight catches the edges of leaves that have the glint of steel, casting the whole room in dramatic shadows and highlights. At her feet is a mosaic made of stones the colour of dried blood and bits of gleaming, glittering glass so polished that they reflect the light in every direction, further confusing the eye.

At the head of the room on a dais stand twin thrones—Andruil’s, made of ironbark and polished red steel, and Ghilan’nain’s, made of sun bleached bone.

Before the dais a slave of Andruil stands, bent over at the waist with his hair falling over his shoulders. He bows to three elvhen wearing armour, but not in Andruil’s colours. She cannot see their faces.

“ _Ir abelas_ ,” he is saying, “my Lady cannot greet you herself. She is returned from a hunt this morning and otherwise occupied.”

There is a small, bright light behind another column—barely bigger than her palm, and it quivers as it peers around its hiding spot, as if considering darting out for a closer look.

One of the three visitors is speaking in a low voice—something about how long their journey is, how disrespectful this is for a host to treat them thus—but she has heard it all before so she pays it little mind. She glances over only to ensure that no one is looking, nervous in spite of Security’s token, and she slips over to the tree the little spirit hovers about.

She thinks the one in the middle hears her—she catches a glimpse of his head turning, before she reaches her hiding place. She freezes behind the tree a moment, but when she looks out again his full attention is on Andruil’s slave, who is offering his apologies all over again.

She looks up. The spirit hovers far above her head.

She considers climbing the tree—while impossibly smooth the bark is sturdy, and she thinks she could shimmy up if she could only find the right grip...

The spirit bobs, enthusiastically, almost within reach. She jumps and fails to catch its attention, and it makes as if to dart out into the open.

“ _Hope!_ ” she hisses, lunging forward.

Her hands close around the spirit, and out of the corner of her eye she sees one of the elves whip his gaze around to her.

She jerks herself back into hiding, her back slamming so hard against the tree she thinks for certain the sound will carry. She sucks in a breath and holds it, and she bites her lip so hard she thinks it’s bleeding.

Blood pounding in her ears, she can only hear the _continued_ formal apologies the slave is intoning.

“Something amiss?” one of the visiting elves asks, startling Andruil’s slave into silence.

Hope flutters against the cage of her fingers, impossibly warm, impatient, _frantic_. She holds it there and tries to listen past the pounding of her heart, the terror that locks her limbs into place.

Security’s scale _burns_ on her face.

“... It is nothing,” an unfamiliar voice says. Rich and low, words clipped and short.

She finally lets herself breathe.

“Thank you,” the last speaker continues, suddenly polite and gentle. “We understand the Huntress is busy. With all respect, I must ask if we may make use of the baths—our journey has been tiresome.”

The slave at the head of the room stammers—possibly offended that they have not listened to the full, formal apology. She allows a rueful smile as he tries to slip a few well-crafted metaphors into his acquiescence, mostly at how clumsily they’re executed.

She parts her fingers enough for Hope to poke its head out between them.

“The wolf! Did you see him?” Hope whispers. It only has two eyes, but they glow like twin suns in its small, round face.

She is not brave enough to scold it here, so she settles with giving the spirit a very stern look.

“But you should!” the spirit insists, its voice barely a breath of air in the stillness of the room. “You need to!”

She continues to give the spirit a stern look.

“Please?” It wiggles in her grasp, and she worries it will slip free. “It’s—it’s important. It’s more important than—than _anything_.”

It’s hard not to smile at the young spirit’s enthusiasm. Her lips twitch upwards in spite of her best efforts, and she finds herself relenting.

She leans around the tree, craning her neck as far out as she dares.

She’s certain the one in the center must be in charge—but he looks so unlike Andruil and Ghilan’nain that she wonders if Hope is mistaken, if this isn’t the Wolf everyone is talking about. He is dressed rather plainly—in pale metals with few if any patterns, armour that is polished to a shine but does not shimmer or gleam unnaturally. Certainly the materials are fine, in spite of their relative plainness, finer than she thinks any slave of Andruil’s would be permitted to wear. He wears his hair long, sides simply shaved, and although there is some complexity to the myriad of braids that fall down his back they are bound only by simple woven strands of pale blue thread.

But there is a white wolf pelt thrown over one shoulder, worn like a sash of station, and when he turns to follow the slave who has spoken to him, she sees he bears no _vallaslin_.

She’s not certain what Hope is expecting she’ll see—she really only catches a glimpse of his face. Strong, striking features, high cheekbones. She’s too far away to make out the colour of his eyes but they are pale. He wears a kind, patient smile until he thinks no one is looking, and then it twists. She’s not sure at this distance but for a moment she thinks his expression is— _pained_ , perhaps.

She blinks, and it is replaced by a smooth, emotionless mask. He clasps his hands behind his back and he and those with him follow the slave out the doors of the throne room.


	2. I Come To You In Pieces

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quick reminder that there is non-explicit dubious consent in this fic, discussion of and implied non-con.

The blizzard lets up after a few days, and the children are eager to play in the snow.

The sun sparkles on every flake of fallen snow, and the world seems so bright when they first pull back the branches and furs protecting the mouth of their little cave that she wonders if she hasn’t gone blind.

But the children run out, laughing, their feet crunching in the undisturbed snow, and Vigilance follows behind, snapping warnings that are unheeded.

Her fever has finally dropped, and she allows herself to be led out of the cave by her hand of flesh, the metal one clinging her bundle of borrowed furs around herself. The snow is up to the children’s knees, deeper still the further they wander from the cave’s mouth.

“Cover your ears!” Vigilance warns, “or they will turn black and fall off!”

The children throw balls of snow at the spirit. One misses spectacularly, and the other passes right through its core—it evaporates into a puff of steam, and the spirit looks so baffled at the sensation that the children burst into peals of laughter.

A sight that’s easy on her eyes, on her heart, chasing away the darkness of their cave hideout and the heaviness of her night terrors. Days of fever dreams that leave her screaming in the night, not remembering a thing—babbling nonsense that no one can repeat her her in the morning, claiming she’d spoken a whole nother language. In spite of her illness receding, they have persisted every night, and this morning as the rest she is shaking with their effects, with the frustration that she remembers _nothing_ , once again.

“You’re a long way from Mythal’s holdings,” their mother offers, interrupting her thoughts. She bears her arm of flesh over her shoulders, drawing more of her weight. “Your _vallaslin_ ,” she clarifies, after receiving a quizzical look. “This is the heart of Andruil’s territory, and yet you are marked for Mythal.”

She shudders. The air has the clarity only afforded by the coldest of days—the sky so free of clouds that even the trees cannot block out how _blue_ it is. Cold enough to draw her skin tight and dry about her bones almost instantly.

“Nera,” Vigilance calls. It is trying—and failing—to speak with some semblance of authority, but its voice warps each time the children manage to throw a snowball through its spectral form. “We will need to move quietly. I cannot watch for Andruil’s hunters like this.”

For her part, Nera sighs with no small measure of affection. “Oh, give them a moment, Vigilance. They’ve been cooped up for days.”

Vigilance flares, then. It almost says something—the air seems to vibrate with the thought alone.

Beside her, Nera’s smile falters.

_They will be cooped up forever if we are caught._

“Please,” Nera says, gently. “Just—just a _moment_ longer.”

It takes a moment, but Vigilance relents. The tension in the air vanishes, and the spirit ducks behind a tree before another snowball can hit it. The children laugh and charge after it, snow held high above their heads.

“They say there is a path through the mountains,” Nera says—softly, as if she doesn’t want to talk over the sound of her children laughing through the trees. Vigilance taunting them, demanding that they _pay more attention to their surroundings_. “That there is a cave. If we reach it before spring—the river that normally floods it will be receded, frozen. And we can walk right through.”

She leans gratefully on Nera as they walk, her fur wrapped feet clumsy but warm as they sink into the snow. “What’s on the other side?”

Nera laughs. “You sound like my children.” She shakes her head, as if to clear her head. “Hard to say. I’m hoping—well, for Freedom, I suppose. Some place no Eluvian will go, some place no Evanuris presides.”

There’s a wistfulness in her voice—and she looks up, then, at the sunlight that’s so far away, up past the branches of impossibly tall trees to the clearest possible sky. Underneath the ochre of Andruil’s _vallaslin_ , her eyes have the burn of too many tears shed over too long a time.

It’s hard to look at. She finds her gaze drawn downwards, at their feet disappearing into the blinding white snow.

 

She has nearly made it to an Eluvian which will take her to the vast wilderness of Andruil’s domain, a bow and quiver slung over her shoulders, when she is approached by a stern-looking spirit, all rigid lines and strict attention to its own shape.

“The Huntress requires your presence in her rooms,” the spirit informs her, its voice a dry, dry stone.

She opens her mouth to protest, but it’s useless—Andruil has long since learned not to send spirits that are willing to be swayed to retrieve her. The grey spirit blinks slowly at her, and she finds the words dying in her throat before she can even speak them.

She sends a longing glance to the Eluvian over the spirit’s shoulder; at its simple frame, curling leaves carved into the slick metal promising a temporary reprise from this place. Considers, for half a heartbeat, making a run for it.

But it would not be the first time Andruil had her dragged back, _vallaslin_ burning white hot on her skin.

The spirit escorts her all the way to Andruil’s chambers. It leaves her abruptly as the doors open, turning and flitting back down the hall of mirrors with obvious purpose. She catches sight of only a few of its reflections as it passes—none of them are any less precise or more impressive than the spirit presents itself.

Andruil is pacing restlessly when she arrives. The Huntress’s shock red braids swing behind her with every turn, the tiny little bones woven into their ends clacking eerily in the late afternoon air. Behind her, Ghilan’nain lounges on a chair grown from a living tree. She is wearing a soft silk dress with a plunging neckline all the colours of twilight, and her whole body is relaxed, giving all the appearance of patience, sated appetites.

But the Halla Mother drums her fingers impatiently while watching Andruil move, and her pale gaze can only be described as predatory.

She stands and waits, arms crossed, until the Evanuris deign to notice her.

“ _Unmarked_.” Andruil is spitting every word, her lips curling into a deadly snarl. “I am not shocked Mother _dares_ to send her general here without her, but of all things she has the audacity to send him _barefaced_.”

“The wolf has always been precious to her,” Ghilan’nain offers.

“Precious!” Andruil’s laugh is dark, all sharp edges and bitterness on the tongue. “He is no noble, he has yet to be counted among our number, yet she removes her _vallaslin_ from his face and demands I accept him as an _honoured guest_. Am I to give him my best rooms? Perhaps some slaves to warm his bed?”

Ghilan’nain, for her part, tilts her head as if she is actually considering it. Whatever her thoughts are, her face is smooth as glass, and she does not interrupt Andruil’s ranting.

“If he would at least _act_ like some fool child giddy on power I would feel better. But no, he takes my mother’s slaves with him to the bathing halls, he speaks to _mine_ as if they are equals—”

This time when Andruil turns, she sees her slave standing in the shadows of the trees, metal arm folded across her arm of flesh.

“You are expected to prostrate yourself when you come into my presence,” Andruil snaps, taking in her hunting clothes and the weapons she carries with barely a glance of her fiery eyes. She finds herself grateful for the high cut of the collar on her jacket. “Where were you wandering off to?”

She raises a brow in return, but makes no placating gesture. She stays with her feet planted on the ground. “I thought I would make myself scarce before someone recognised me and we had a spat over stolen property in your temple, my lady.”

Andruil makes a sound somewhere between a snort and a laugh. “You think yourself so _precious_ , don’t you. Worry not; my mother’s thralls are too absorbed in watching stars and making laws to remember some damaged goods. However they have been obtained.”

Her jaw tightens and her fist clenches, but she gives no other indication that the words have stung.

“You left before I dismissed you this morning. At least tell me you’ve made yourself _useful_ while you’ve been absent—what are my slaves saying about Mythal’s wolf?”

Ghilan’nain snorts. “He has a _name_ , my love.”

Andruil sends her wife a weary glance.

“Opinion seems divided,” she answers Andruil, honestly. “Worry is fretting that he might inspire trouble.”

The Huntress waves her hand in the air. “Yes, I know _precisely_ what the _spirits_ are saying about him. I imagine Bravado is wandering the halls and screeching of his great deeds, and Security is standing on the roof moaning about a stranger it doesn’t trust.”

_It called him a beacon to the people_ , she almost says.

Andruil narrows her eyes suspiciously. “What are you smiling about?”

She schools her expression. “Nothing, my lady.”

The Evanuris examines her a moment longer, then resumes her pacing.

“The Elvhen seem to consider him much as they do any honoured guest—there are some whispers that his ascension heralds change, but people are mostly just annoyed that there are so many guests to care for now.”

“They will quickly change their tune when they see him saying _please_ and _thank you_ with his bare face as if their services are a thing they offer instead of what he demands of them.” Andruil’s hands are firmly clasped behind her back, now, which is something the Huntress only does to disguise their shaking. The snarl is on her lips again, her finely plucked brows furrowed and her eyes burning.

“ _Ma vhenan_ ,” Ghilan’nain coos, finally rising from her perch. She glides over to her wife and makes a soothing noise. She catches Andruil’s wrists with her hands as the other woman passes, bringing her pacing to an end.

“I am certain,” she says, with immense gentleness, “that he has yet to fully understand that he is now their better. He imagines he still has all the ease of interaction that his previous status provided, with all the privileges of what Mythal intends to make him. Was I not the same, once?”

Ghilan’nain brings Andruil’s wrists to her lips. She kisses one, then the other, her lids fluttering closed and her head bowed in a display of submission. Andruil’s arms trapped between them.

Andruil’s expression begins to melt.

“Then perhaps,” the Huntress murmurs, “he needs someone to show him.”

Ghilan’nain’s painted lips curl into a smile against Andruil’s ebony skin.

The watching slave suspects she is no longer needed, and she ducks her head as she turns to go.

“One more thing,” Andruil says.

The Evanuris’ voice is so smug and self-assured that she falters mid-step.

 

The sun is setting over Andruil’s lands, turning the new leaves in the forest the most brilliant shades of gold. In the rare evenings that she is free, she likes to climb to the roof and watch it with Security at her back, Worry at her side and Hope in her lap. With how often Andruil is gone, and how tightly Ghilan’nain holds her bodyguard at her side in the absence of her wife, she has had few chances for such moments of peace.

If she had managed to get away, to sneak off into the wilderness for the length of this mysterious Solas’s stay, then she would have felt an immense pang of loss for those moments. Now, standing in front of a mirror while a slave with Ghilan’nain’s _vallaslin_ tames the curls of her hair and another applies the last touches of paint to her lips, she can see a glimmer of the last light fading behind the balcony doors at her back. She wonders if they are all gathered without her—how Hope is faring with all this excitement, if Worry has managed to split itself in two trying to keep the young spirit out of sight and out of trouble.

She is trying not to think about her own reflection, staring back at her. The tightness of the dress at her waist, the dangerous slope of the neckline. How it’s precisely the colour of old, dried blood.

Ghilan’nain breezes in, and the slaves immediately drop to their knees without even a whisper.

_She_ does not—she watches the Evanuris sweep across the room in the mirror’s reflection, wearing a dress that could be made of starlight, silk footwraps that shine like polished ivory and gemstones hanging from her ears that glow so bright they might actually be the eyes of spirits that have outlived their usefulness.

The only thing on her with any colour at all is her lips, painted red as fresh spilled blood.

“Oh,” the Evanuris proclaims, seeing her standing at the mirror. A slow smile spreads over her features, and she pauses there, in the center of the room. The fading sunlight at her back, giving her impossibly pale hair a delicate golden glow.

Her heart beats faster against her ribs at the sight.

The slaves who have followed her into the room stand at a respectful distance, forced to hold their burdens without any order to put them down.

The Halla mother crosses the room and embraces her from behind, resting her chin on her shoulder and meeting her gaze in the mirror’s reflection.

She does not flinch under the Evanuris’ scrutiny—does not react to the pleased hum that comes from the Goddess’ lips, makes no apology for not prostrating herself upon Ghilan’nain’s entry into the room. Her hands remain at her sides, the right one clenched so tight her nails dig into her palm.

Ghilan’nain kisses her shoulder. “You’re angry with me,” she murmurs, and her voice is the sweetness of sunlight glittering on dewdrops.

She rolls her eyes.

Ghilan’nain presses her nose against her skin—and _breathes_ , deeply, although whether she smells particularly nice or if the Evanuris is concealing something in her expression is anyone’s guess. Then she withdraws with a wistful sigh.

Her hand lingers for a moment, trailing down the impossibly low back of the dress.

She goes to lean against the balcony doors, setting the slaves in the room to their tasks with only a gesture.

Those who have been attending her until now return, and they begin to pin her hair to exaggerate her sidecut. One of the slaves who has just arrived has brought footwraps, and she unwinds them as she kneels. They glitter as if they are made of solid gold, but they are soft as leather from a halla calf on her skin.

The other has brought a box, and she approaches Ghilan’nain and opens it. The mirror’s reflection alone isn’t enough to give her a look at what’s inside, but she can see something gleaming and glittering within. The Evanuris ponders its contents thoughtfully, tilting her head as she does.

“It’s not as if I am giving you to just anyone, you know.” Ghilan’nain indicates a few items in the box with a few minimal gestures. “I wouldn’t gift my little Songbird to a complete stranger.”

The slave leaves what line of sight the mirror offers. There is the sound of the box being deposited on a table, and then she reappears with gold earrings in hand.

Ghilan’nain watches the slave slip the earrings onto her ears for a moment, then she goes to where the box has been placed, vanishing from sight.

“We were friends, you know. Solas and I. Before my ascension—he was kind to me, always, and although I was not allowed to leave Andruil’s temple he had been to all the most wonderful of places at Mythal’s side. He would tell me stories of the markets of Arlathan, the deepest wilds, the tallest mountains. He could talk forever of magic, and was eager to teach to any who would learn.”

She balances on one foot so that the slave may finish with the wraps there. She starts on the next without hesitation—the girl working on her hair finishes and retreats to a far corner of the room, her face expressionless.

Her earrings applied, that slave returns to where Ghilan’nain lingers, but does not come back.

“When I was wounded—oh, I missed his company. But Andruil would let me speak to none but her own for—” A catch in her breath, a falter in her voice. Then, softly, “I don’t remember. It was—so long. So lonely.”

The slave returns with delicate cuffs. Gold, inlaid with garnets. She places one on her wrist, one on her upper arm, but leaves her left arm bare.

“When I ascended, I begged Andruil to buy him from Mythal. Oh, she balked—she never liked him, found him mouthy and disrespectful. She’s never appreciated pride in anyone but herself, I think. But she tried, for my sake.”

The slave finishes with her footwraps, then retreats, leaving her alone in the mirror’s reflection. Red dress, copper skin, dark hair falling in delicate, controlled curls over one shoulder. Green eyes staring back at her, at the sharp line of her own jaw, of her unmoving lips and the tightness in her shoulders.

“Did you know she offered a hundred slaves in exchange for a single one to keep me company? To tell me stories of places I might never go when I was lonely. So she might run away on her hunts, and leave me here with a friendly face, at least.”

Ghilan’nain enters the frame, something gold in her hands. She stands, just beside her, admiring her for a moment. Then, with a touch that is delicate and cold as frost on glass, she reaches over and guides her chin—turning her head so that green eyes meet pale, pale blue.

Her mouth feels dry.

“She refused,” Ghilan’nain says, tilting her head to the side. Her eyes flit all over—taking in her nose, the paint above her eyes and her lips, the powders on her cheeks and the glitter of gold and gemstones dangling from her ears. The lines of Andruil’s vallaslin on her face, sharp against her skin as lines of blood. “And out of spite Andruil set those hundred slaves loose in the forest and hunted them down, to the last. From their corpses I made a monster, and we set it loose on Mythal’s lands, on the promise that I would only unravel what I’d made if she gave him to me.”

There is almost no inflection in the Evanuris’ voice. It makes her skin crawl. She swallows, instinctively.

“It destroyed four villages and a city, and still Mythal refused. Solas killed it himself. He hasn’t spoken to me since.”

“Do not touch me,” she says, her voice surprisingly even. But she cannot pull away.

Ghilan’nain smiles—and then she leans in, and her teeth press against the mark they made on her neck that morning. The Evanuris bites— _hard_ —and she does not let go.

Her heart pounds in her chest so loud she wonders if the whole room can hear it.

Ghilan’nain kisses the spot, gently, over and over, before she withdraws. She cups her cheek with her hand, all adorned with rings made of sun bleached bone, and then she turns her so she faces the mirror once again.

“My pet,” the Evanuris says, soothing and sweet. She raises the item in her hands. “Andruil worries he is kind, still, that his kindness is a poison. But he will remember that he is to be _Evanuris_ , as I did, that he is a gentle thing no longer.”

It’s a collar, she realises. Tall, beautiful, inlaid with garnets, but a collar nonetheless and her cheeks burn at the sight of it in the mirror.

“Don’t fret. After he has used you, and left you battered, I will take you back, and you will forgive me.”

She flinches as Ghilan’nain closes the collar around her throat.

 

The evening’s festivities have begun by the time she is ushered into the hall where Andruil was meant to greet her honoured guests. She and those who lead her—marked for Ghilan’nain—slip around the periphery of the event, and she clutches the instrument they have given her in her metal hand as she takes in the sight as quickly and critically as she can with her head appropriately bowed in submission.

Small wisps of spirits have been summoned to flit through the branches of the trees, so far above they almost look like stars glittering among the canopy. The leaves have turned a brilliant red, grown now so thick that when they sway in a breeze not felt on the ground it looks like flowing blood.

If the nobility in attendance are unnerved by the display far above their heads, they do not comment on it. They talk of the liquor; from delicate ciders to beverages that glow or shimmer with every swirl of a glass. One loudly proclaims that she will only drink the blood of the most obedient slaves—fermented, of course, she’s hardly an _animal_. Another laments that the last embers of a new born spirit, freshly slaughtered, is not available.

Everywhere there are slaves with trays of food and drink. Glasses that hover upside down in the air, dallying behind the trays they are tethered to by magic as the slave carrying them walks too quickly for them to keep up. Bite sized portions of sharp, precise cuts of meat are offered, tasted, and forgotten about before even a description of what fantastic animal provided them. Compliments are not begged, offered or given—this is the household of an Evanuris, and the best is expected, presented, and taken without comment.

The nobility is persuaded and encouraged to move into the next hall—all done through the flickering of lights and the subtle shifts in the wind; the way the slaves move between them; the calls of songbirds far, far above, and the flit of their wings as they rush from one tree to the next, flowing like a meandering river in the direction the guests are required to move.

The next hall is more like a forest even than the last—the trees that ring the exterior of the room are even broader, and there are still gaps between them as far as the eye can see. There is a mist around the edges of the glade—if so large a space can even be called such—and it seems to discourage the eye from focusing at where walls should be, where structure is required to define this space from the rest of the temple around it.

There are no dining tables—instead there are a number of fine cushions and extravagant piles of furs surrounding what at first glance appears to be fires. But the flames are too red, too bright, and upon further examination they are spirits, crackling with _waiting_ and being _contained_ against their wills. Spits with animals turn of their own accord over each one, of a dizzying variety of shapes and sizes. On the spit in the center there is something that at first glimpse seems to have been once a bird of some sort—large enough to dwarf a horse, and too big by far to feed the number of people intended to sit around it. The further she looks away from the central flame, the more identifiable the animals become. One, a gryphon. The next, a leopard.

There is _some_ reaction, among the noble guests, to being forced to sit and dine on the grass—soft underneath bare toes like the finest of carpets. The nobility wearing Andruil’s colours finds their places easily, and they lounge atop the furs as if this is all business as usual. Some of the nobles associated with other houses balk at the sight—most with an air about their manner that indicates this is as expected as it is unwelcome, although a man wearing Dirthamen’s colours tries to give a bowing slave grief over it as she tries to indicate which seat is his.

Around the edges of the room, cloaked in the mist that obscures the edges of the room, she and the other slaves wait as the nobility finds their seats.

Trailing behind them, lingering so far behind that every noble has been seated before they pass through the false woods and into the massive glade, Mythal’s wolf and his followers walk beside Andruil and Ghilan’nain.

She thinks his finery matches the situation a little better now. Or would, if he were not walking next to Andruil who is all ebony skin and a dress like blood and flame, and Ghilan’nain who looks and moves as if made of starlight and the last sliver of the moon. His finery is soft in material and simple in cut, the only indication of his station the white wolf pelt slung across his shoulders. He is still unadorned, save for the wolf’s jawbone and what simple blue ties are in his hair.

She thinks of Hope as he walks, a smirk on his face as he speaks with the Huntress. How excited the young spirit had been, how desperate to see him.

“ _You_ had to see him,” a voice at her side whispers—familiar and soft, wistful and warm.

Her heart lurches in her chest, and she turns her head to see Compassion, standing beside her after— _months_.

He looks precisely the same—down to his well-worn, faded clothing that is far too plain to belong in a place such as this. His hat is as broad as she remembers, his eyes as sunken in and his expression as vacant. He looks somewhere in her direction, not quite _at_ her but in the general vicinity as she gapes at him rather openly.

She opens her mouth to hiss his name, only to shut it so quickly again that her teeth clack together.

“A whim, a wish—hope born of what was, once. And you slept and—and it went somewhere safe, somewhere close. Still, there’s a sliver that stays, sweet and somehow sharp.”

She glances wildly at the people surrounding her. Not a one of them seems to notice this strange-bodied spirit standing where he should not.

He tilts his head, just slightly. “I am sorry,” he says, gently. “I lost you when you slept, and I couldn’t find you again. But one foot in front of the other in the snow—battered but not broken, you always find your way.”

The nobles launch into conversation again, and the dull roar of their combined voices makes her jump in her own skin, attention jerked away from Compassion. Andruil, Ghilan’nain and their guests have been seated before the grandest of the flame-mimicking spirits, which now turn and whirl in place, many tendrils reaching out from their cores, sharp as knives and long enough besides, to slice the flesh roasting above them. With deliberate flourish and delicate touches, they deliver perfect slices of meat onto the plates in front of them.

Slaves rush in from the sidelines to offer portions of vegetables, roasted and stuffed, nectar poured over the lot of it from blossoms larger than their heads. The beverages that flow from pitchers can hardly be called _wine_ , and very quickly the guests become relaxed, laughing and imbibing of everything put in front of their faces.

She looks to her left—Compassion is gone.

She barely has time to frown at his sudden disappearance, to wonder what he means, before there is a light touch on her arm. She jolts and looks at the source—one of Ghilan’nain’s slaves, a soft smile on her face and sorrow in her eyes.

“It’s time, _da’len_ ,” she says, with a voice as gentle as the fingertips on her skin.

Something must pass across her expression then, because the woman’s face softens further, and she reaches up to cup her face.

“He is young to power,” the woman offers. The attempt she makes at a reassuring smile doesn’t quite make it to her eyes. “His whims will be fickle; it will be over before you know it.”

She wants to scream. At the situation, at her helplessness—at the _knowing_ behind this stranger’s eyes.

Instead, she ducks her head, closes her eyes, and allows herself a moment to swallow everything up.

Then she looks up and tries to smile as if nothing is wrong.

She doesn’t think she quite succeeds—the woman before her still seems sad, and her own face feels stiff. But the woman drops her hand and looks away.

She follows the women marked for Ghilan’nain out of the safety of the mist, into the heat and roar of the celebration.

They are not the only slaves who leave the treeline at that moment—it seems that all around here there is a flurry of dancers in loose, flowing clothing, with easy laughs and sharp, curling smiles. There are musicians, too—some play flutes or strum stringed instruments she can’t identify. One seems to be manipulating a chorus of birds to whirl and sing about their head, and although their lips move in time with the birds, the elf who commands them makes no sound of their own.

Ghilan’nain’s dancers move with an easy grace, leading her down a direct line to where the Evanuris and their guests are seated. Not once do they have to stray from their intended path—although performers of every kind move about them in a whirlwind of colour and sound, they always dance out of the way at the last moment, always shift just enough so that they remain unimpeded.

Sweat collects on the back of her neck—an impossible breeze catches hold of it, and she can’t feel the grass under her toes, the brush of her hair over a bare shoulder, or the chafe of the collar on her neck. All she feels is the chill it draws down the length of her spine.

As they draw closer, one of the dancers turns and looks at her over a delicate shoulder clad in silk that flows like the edge of a cloud.

She lifts her lute and begins to play as she walks.

She has been given no direction of _what_ to play, only that she is to sing, to be seductive and to look at this wolf of Mythal’s with reverence, adoration. There is no true feeling at the tips of her metal fingers, only the distant itch at the base of her stump that indicates there has been any contact at all. But as she strums with her hand of flesh, she hears chords struck perfectly each time as she meanders, playing around without really knowing what melody she means to produce.

Ahead of her, the dancers begin to part, and she can see those gathered about the fire in front of her. Mythal’s bare-faced general is speaking to Andruil, an easy smirk on his face as he sits cross-legged, leaning back on the palms of his hands. He looks—arrogant, quick to smile, and from the level of the wine in his glass possibly eager to overindulge of the riches his new station promises him. Altogether very unlike the man she glimpsed with Hope, he looks remarkably at ease among those who proclaim themselves to be gods.

Ghilan’nain sends one look over her shoulder, resting against Andruil’s. She’s laughing at something—the Evanuris’ gaze passes right over her, to meet her wife’s, without hesitating even once.

She isn’t sure whether she wants to scream in rage or cry. _You always find your way_ , Compassion said, but she hasn’t felt so lost since Andruil struck Mythal’s markings from her face and replaced them with her own.

Ghilan’nain whispers something in Andruil’s ear. The Huntress laughs, rich and deep and low.

Her fingers find chords, rich and bittersweet, and _then_ Ghilan’nain reacts—her eyes widen, _just_ so, and her jaw clenches as she recognises the song. The Evanuris looks at her— _finally_ looks at her, pale eyes locking onto her green ones, and if looks could kill—

It’s hard not to feel a little smug. _You wanted me to woo him_ , she wants to say. _You’re the one who wanted this_.

Ghilan’nain is still glaring openly at her as she starts to sing with a voice that is strong, steady, and warm.

“ _I come to you in pieces,”_ she sings, and Mythal’s general freezes in place.

She almost falters then— _does_ , a little, at his expression. The way his eyes widen, how his smirk suddenly falls and he looks as if he’s been stabbed in the gut. Her metal fingers slip, just enough to send a chord awry, and Andruil looks over her shoulders at her, then, instead of her wife, or even at the man who—at a word from her—looks as if he’s about to fall apart at the seams.

“ _I come to you with…_ ” She doesn’t quite recover as he looks up, slowly, and her eyes meet his. “ _… steady breath and shaking hands.”_

_Oh_ , she thinks. Because _there’s_ the man she caught a glimpse of that morning. He looks her dead in the eye, and for a moment she’s lost. He looks—shocked, overwhelmed, and—is that resignation, she wonders. Relief? Despair? She can’t quite pinpoint the whirlwind that seems to be passing somewhere behind his eyes, however steadily they meet her gaze.

_Stormclouds_ , she thinks, when she fails to determine their precise colour—somewhere between blue and grey.

_“I kneel before you, breathless,”_ she sings as she watches his face, all the pain that has risen to the surface, and she finds a strange pity for him, for all the sorrow her appearance seems to have caused. “ _I kneel and beg…”_

His lips part. He moves, as if to stand and approach her—and his brow furrows at her as he takes in her expression, as his eyes drift to the _vallaslin_ over the rest of her face, as if he hadn’t noticed it before.

“ _… for your mercy and you love.”_

Andruil turns back to him then, the bones in all the myriads of braids in her hair clacking together with her sudden movement. By the time she looks at him fully, he has schooled his expression—he meets Andruil’s curious gaze expectantly, and although the smirk that was plastered there only moments before has returned, it is a little shaky, and the line of his shoulders impossibly straight, tense.

She remembers like a slap in the face why she is here, and the moment is gone. The dancers whirl around them, her stomach turns, and her hands are steady on her instrument. Even as she sings, she does not meet his gaze again.

 


	3. Something Like Heartache

She plays three more songs—her voice sweeps through them, bittersweet and mourning, and she moves around the fire with deliberate, soft steps. The dancers who sweep and whirl about her occasionally block her view of the Evanuris and their guests, but she finds plenty of opportunity to observe them between moving bodies, the sparking arms of the spirit made into living flame in the center of their circle.

Solas makes all appearances of paying her no mind, beyond that first initial shock. But when he thinks she is not looking he peers at her, brow furrowed, as if trying to puzzle something out about her. There are two elves with him, both marked for Mythal. The first of them seems to pay her little attention, beyond a few curious glances at Solas’ strange manner, before he continues to entertain Andruil with whatever story he is telling with exaggerated gestures. The second—yellow-eyed with green _vallaslin_ —glowers as openly at her as he does everyone else.

In a moment where Ghilan’nain occupies all of Andruil’s attention, he leans in and whispers something to Solas, a sharp downturn to his mouth as he speaks. Solas responds—but their lips are moving too quickly for her to read, cast in too many strange shadows from the fire and the dancers whirling around it, and she gives up on understanding them.

Whenever Solas is not trying to catch glimpses of her, he is smirking or laughing along with whatever joke his cheerful companion is making at the moment. But he thanks every slave who tops off his glass—much to their open shock—and he leads a round of polite applause after every song ends, giving her a much needed reprieve to figure out what she is playing next, and to let the dancers catch their breath.

“My thanks,” he tells the spirit, in a moment of quiet after the third song has ended and the begrudging applause has died down. “The meal is excellent and your flames warm. May I ask your nature?”

Andruil stiffens. Ghilan’nain immediately moves to soothe her, rubbing circles in the small of her back.

The spirit blinks rather owlishly, clearly shocked it is even being addressed. “Diligence,” it answers, its voice strangely halting. “Although perhaps that is not quite right now that I am so bright, but—I was before. And—and thank you. I have worked hard to please my lady and her honoured guest. I am pleased I have served in this temporary form.”

“And it shows,” Solas says. His smile then seems—strikingly genuine. A little old for the rest of his face, she thinks, as the corners of his eyes seem to crinkle. Then he turns to the lead dancer—the one who tried to be kind—and without hesitating he says, “You have excellent form. Did you study under a spirit of Admiration who served Dirthamen?”

She bows, although her cheeks colour at being singled out. “Yes, honoured General, nearly two centuries ago.”

Solas continues on to compliment each of the dancers in turn. He asks each their name, how long they have served under Ghilan’nain. He demonstrates passing knowledge of the forms they move between, the spirits they have studied under, and the women look nervously to their Evanuris, but all reply with grace and poise when addressed.

Andruil is drunk enough now that she is unable to hide her rage. It vibrates under her skin—rolls off her in waves like an aura of power, and the air temperature seems to rise the longer Solas speaks.

She looks at him uneasily, wondering what he’s thinking. But there’s a playful curl to his lips as he avoids Andruil’s gaze—oh, he is not ignorant to the effect it’s having on her. And neither are his companions, from the look of them—the friendly one seems nervous, for all his smiling and nodding, and the other’s scowl only seems to deepen with every passing moment.

He turns to her then, and she stiffens as he catches her gaze once again. Whatever strange expression he had before is gone, however, only the same polite courtesy he extended to the spirit and the dancers. “You have a wonderful voice,” he tells her, his voice dropping a touch lower. She finds it—pleasant sounding, enough that the compliment brings warmth to her cheeks. “And you play with great skill.”

Her mouth feels impossibly dry. She can _feel_ Andruil’s fierce stare, even though she does not look the Huntress’ way. She ducks into a polite bow, so she does not have to meet his gaze any longer. “I am honoured to serve,” she says, the words thick and clumsy on her lips.

Andruil scoffs so loudly it’s almost an undignified snort.

“Are you thirsty?”

She jerks back upright. She opens her mouth to respond, and closes it again. There is—remarkably genuine concern on his features, and underneath it a flash of something in his eyes that she thinks could be mistaken for kindness, if he were a lesser man. She finds herself utterly unable to respond, frowning as she tries to figure out what _precisely_ his game is.

But then he stands, and she stiffens with panic.

“Have you eaten?” he asks her, brows furrowed, and she finds she can’t look away from his eyes. She is rooted to the ground as he approaches, distantly aware of Andruil’s furious glare and Ghilan’nain’s gentle hushing.

He reaches out, and she cannot react.

He takes her hand of flesh—and his touch is _so_ gentle, so delicate that she should barely feel it. But his fingertips are startlingly warm, and to her exposed flesh in the cool air he feels like a flame, searing into her skin.

It takes everything she has not to flinch away from him. To let him lead her, with his gentle touch and kind smile, to sit beside him on the furs. To allow him to take the lute from her metal hand, to press a wine glass into her right.

“Please,” he says, as she stares at him, stiff as a board. “Drink. Have you eaten? You look faint.”

Her fingers clench around the glass’ stem, and she almost throws it in his face. _Of course I look faint, you’ve just sat a lowly slave at Andruil’s fire, you idiot_.

The Evanuris in question looks as if she’s about to burn her own temple to the ground in sheer outrage. Her eyes are _burning_ with raw power, and something seems to be sparking in the air around her, as if she is considering a particularly powerful spell.

Ghilan’nain leans in and catches her wife’s hands with her own. She brings them up to her mouth and kisses her knuckles, gently, murmuring something in between each soft press of her lips to Andruil’s dark, dark flesh.

With each kiss, with each whispered assurance, Andruil’s temper calms. Her lips still curl in distaste, but when she huffs it is with harmless annoyance rather than an outrage that warns of everyone’s impending doom.

Ghilan’nain’s eyes, however, flit between Solas and the slave he’s sat at his side. The flames have washed the little colour from them, and they are just a pair of bright, gleaming pupils, watching intently. For what, precisely, is unclear.

Around her, the dancers relax. She takes a tentative sip of the wine, and watches as Solas places his own empty plate in front of her, and Diligence fills it up with delicate slices of red, red meat.

The wine is so white it is nearly invisible in the glass. It tastes of a clear spring morning, and it leaves a warmth like sunlight filtered through leaves on her tongue. She detects very little bite of alcohol in it—and she frowns, wondering what his game is if he’s not planning on getting her drunk.

“May I ask your name?” he says when she has eaten a little, and the shaking of her hands has steadied some.

She glances at him. There’s an earnest look about him that she doesn’t quite understand. But he has not touched her again, and she thinks that at least is some comfort.

“I don’t know it,” she tells him, honestly.

“She came to us with no memory,” Ghilan’nain explains from across the fire, as she feeds Andruil a freshly served piece of meat with delicate fingers. “Poor thing was lost in the woods after a storm, the most awful contraption in place of her arm. But she sings like a pretty little Songbird, doesn’t she?”

Not once does Solas look from her. Not even to acknowledge that Ghilan’nain has spoken. He seems to be—searching her eyes for something all over again.

There’s something unbearably like heartache in his expression, and she drops her gaze to her plate. She makes herself eat, in spite of the turning of her stomach—she hasn’t eaten all day, and she’ll need her wits about herself for what’s to come.

“And you have claimed none for yourself?”

There is a wistfulness to his words. She bites her lip at them.

“I may take nothing I am not given, my lord,” she tells him, her voice even and low.

He exhales—so soft she can barely hear it. So sharp she can’t ignore it. His hands move, as if to reach for her, but before she can react they are clenched into fists, falling into his lap.

“I am Solas,” he tells her, gently, “if there are to be introductions.”

“Such as they are.” His companion to her left, the one with the severe expression, has a rough, stern voice, and she jerks in place at the sound of it—she’s forgotten his presence so easily. “You are seated next to Mythal’s General, Highest of her People and Vanquisher of the Titan threat.   _And_ ,” he adds, with a deliberate glare at Solas, “soon to be Evanuris in his own right, should this tour of pompous drivel ever come to an end. Shall I list your many titles, or would you like to woo the present company with pleasant talk and sweet compliments?”

She expects Solas to bristle at that, but he only drops his gaze, as if bashful. “This is Abelas, one of Mythal’s trusted sentinels.”

“Currently reduced to glorified babysitter,” Abelas snaps impatiently.

“And I am Elarenan!” The man on Solas’ right leans dramatically forward, his hair swinging so perilously close to the flames as he does that Diligence actually shrinks in on itself so he doesn’t get burned. “Ambassador of Mythal, Her Word is Law and Her Judgement Fair. May I say that is a _marvelous_ arm you have there! Is that June’s sigil I spy? What honours you must have earned for the God of Craft’s work to be grafted into your own flesh!”

She doesn’t realise the metal hand has clenched until Solas glances down at it, frowning. She bites the inside of her cheek and forces herself to relax.

“She saved my life,” Ghilan’nain answers from across the fire, her fingers tangling in the braids in her wife’s hair.

“She guards my wife when I am not home.” Andruil’s hand rises to find Ghilan’nain’s, then turns her head and presses a kiss to her brow. “I would have only the best for her protection.”

Elarenan seems to sense Andruil’s agitation at a slave being the center of attention, and turns back to the Huntress with an eager expression. “My lady,” he says earnestly, “I have heard grand tales of your defeat of Anaris and his forces this last summer, and I was hoping to hear the truth of it from you. Did you spear his general through the forehead or pin him by the ears with your arrows?”

Andruil accepts the change in topic with a slow, feral smile. She tilts her head to the side and begins to tell the story— _actually, it was two generals_ —and pauses only to sip her wine, or when Ghilan’nain feeds her delicate slivers of meat by hand.

Across the fire, the slave drinks her wine to disguise her utter relief that all eyes seemed to have turned from her.

All eyes but Solas’, it seems—soft, certainly, but unwavering in their attentiveness to her every movement. Even as the evening drags on, even as Andruil drinks to excess, even as the other fires surrounding them begin to blink out, one by one, as their spirits are released from their bindings, Solas watches her.

 

After the evening has drawn to a close, all the spirit flames released to their previous forms, Andruil remains behind to speak with one of her generals while Ghilan’nain and her attendants take Solas to his room.

Ghilan’nain’s slender arm is linked through his, and she sways as she walks—a side effect of having encouraged Andruil to drink so much wine was having to overindulge herself to accomplish it—and she laughs a little too loud at her own story as she finishes it, long after Solas has ceased a gentle, polite chuckle in response.

As for her, she stares at their backs as they walk. Not through any act of defiance—what little food she’d managed to eat is turning with the wine in her stomach, her palm feels clammy and she thinks she might be sweating all over from the chill she feels on her skin. Keeping her gaze squarely in front of her is the only way she thinks she won’t throw up.

The hall is one she does not walk frequently—this wing is reserved for honoured guests of Andruil, who Ghilan’nain usually has no dealings with. They have passed through a number of courtyards, but the one they turn to walk through is the finest by far; filled with trees bearing low-hanging, swaying branches, dipping low with the weight of blood red leaves. They walk on soft marble stones carefully laid among even softer grass—and all around them, the ground dips and rises, providing places to sit and lounge, open to the stars glittering far above in a dark, dark tapestry of sky. Everywhere, nobles lounge—many are accompanied by slaves, the lines of _vallaslin_ on their faces blurred by shadow and soft, soft laughter.

Their pupils still catch what little moonlight there is at hand, gleaming sharp and hard even as they smile, simper, and please those whom they have been told are their betters.

Ghilan’nain steers Solas through the clearing to its farthest end—there is a waterfall made of stone so dark it could be part of the sky above them, the water that dances over it filled with a thousand tiny lights that glitter brighter than starlight. There are no nobles lounging here, no slaves waiting—only a passage behind the fall, a door cleverly concealed by the curve of stone and the rush of water.

“Here,” Ghilan’nain announces, her attempt at solemnity betrayed by the smile that she cannot keep from her lips. “My wife offers her finest room for the duration of your stay.”

Solas inclines his head. “My most sincere thanks,” he offers, but whatever more he hopes to say is interrupted by the Halla mother’s laughter.

“So serious,” she teases, when she has composed herself a little.

He allows her a small, patient smile. “We are hardly equals any longer, my lady.” His voice is gentle, his words spoken precisely and deliberately.

“And yet you are unmarked, as I am.” She hums thoughtfully at Solas’ utter lack of reaction. “Come, Solas, we can be friends again, yet. You are to be _Evanuris_.” She grips both his hands firmly, her eyes wide as they search his. “You have proven yourself worthy of being counted as greatest among the elvhen. It may not be official, but soon rank will no longer stand between us.”

His shoulders relax, just a little. “I... have missed our conversations,” he tells her. He looks impossibly old when he says it.

Ghilan’nain smiles, and squeezes his hands before she drops them. Solas ducks his head and turns to the door, but stops when she says, “Oh, one more thing.”

Solas looks back at the Evanuris, frowning. But Ghilan’nain has already turned and extended one slender-fingered hand to the slave standing a respectful distance away.

Her hands hang uselessly at her side. Her mouth feels dry—she stares up at the Evanuris with wide, wide eyes, hoping to find something there. Some— _hesitation_ , at least. Something to be bargained with.

Ghilan’nain meets her gaze, her polite smile rapidly fading into open disapproval.

And that—that _hurts_ , more than it should. Standing there, bearing slave markings and owning _nothing_ —not a name, not even herself.

She inhales, clenches her jaw, and decides to save whatever scraps of dignity she can from all of this and steps forward to take Ghilan’nain’s offered hand. Perhaps she grips it too tightly, and tries to hold the Evanuris’ gaze for too long.

Perhaps the silent plea is a little desperate—but it is ignored, and Ghilan’nain turns back to Solas with a smile.

“ _My_ gift to you,” Ghilan’nain says, her voice honey-smooth. She holds the hand joined with hers out to Solas, and waits for him to take it.

But—there is only the sound of water running over stone, her own heart pounding against her chest. She counts its beating— _fifteen, sixteen_ —before she tears her gaze from Ghilan’nain’s face and to Solas.

He stands there, precisely as he was the moment before—only his expression is completely and utterly blank, although his eyes might be a little wide. He looks not at her, but at Ghilan’nain—staring at her _so blatantly_. She doesn’t think she’s seen anyone dare to meet the Halla mother’s gaze for so long.

He blinks, as if suddenly remembering that he has to respond. “I do not require the services of a bodyguard,” he says, the inflection of his voice as smooth and emotionless as his face. “Or that of a singer.”

Ghilan’nain laughs. “Oh, but she’s so much more than a little songbird, Solas,” she assures him. She reaches down to take Solas’ hand, to rest that of her slave firmly in it. “I can personally assure you, she is _quite_ skilled.”

His hand is cold against hers, his touch somehow even more gentle than it was earlier in the night. Even after Ghilan’nain draws away, he does not move to grip her hand tighter—he stares, with an impossibly blank expression, at the place their hands are joined.

“You are to be Evanuris,” Ghilan’nain says, her voice a low, low warning. “There are certain privileges you are _expected_ to partake in.”

Still, he does not move. Does not— _react._ She finds herself searching for one regardless—narrowing her eyes at the impassiveness of his features, following the sharp line of his jaw down to the dimple in his chin. Her hand is sweat-slick and cold—his as dry and unreadable as the rest of him.

“Oh, please do let me know if she fails to please you in any way,” Ghilan’nain calls over her shoulder as she leaves. “I’d hate to find her in the slave quarters in the morning—such a terrible way to learn your guests are unhappy.”

He looks away from their hands, finally—to stare over her shoulder at Ghilan’nain’s retreating back, the slaves falling into line behind her.

Her face feels impossibly warm. Her stomach turns and her hand begins to shake—not with nausea or fear, as has been the case all evening. Something a little more primal.

Solas feels the tremble in her hand and jolts out of wherever his thoughts have taken him. He drops her hand as if it’s burned him, and takes a step back.

_Right_ , she thinks, pressing her lips together. _Because you’re the one who should be uncomfortable here_.

She crosses her arms over her chest and meets his gaze, when he finally deigns to look at her again.

He opens his mouth as if to say something—but he sees something in her expression, and closes it again. He sighs, then turns and opens the door.

While his back is turned, she considers running. Wonders how far she might make it before someone catches her. Security’s scale is tucked away with her hunting leathers, wherever those have been taken, but she wagers that she knows the depths of the temple better than anyone else in Andruil’s service—she’s never seen anyone else use them.

Could she make it out of the temple? To those mountains in the distance?

Would there be anyone there waiting for her if she did?

She hesitates, and Solas turns back to her, holding the door open.

He says nothing. His eyes dart to the trees surrounding them—out past the curve of stone that shelters the doorway, beyond the rush and the glitter of the water under the night sky.

His gaze settles on her, then, and something of what she is considering must be written on her face—his shoulders fall, and even though he attempts to smile she reads sorrow in the corners of his lips, in the shadows cast over his eyes.

“Please,” he says. So gently that it cannot be overheard by prying ears—so gently she can barely hear it over the gentle sounds of water, the sway of soft grass and leaves in the wind. “I have no desire to hurt you.”

She wonders if that is supposed to be reassuring. But it rings true to her ears, nonetheless, and she ducks her head and slips inside as he holds the door open for her. Looking out once again into the distance as she passes, as if for watching eyes.

There is a short passageway of stone, curving again to allow even more privacy to the room’s occupants, and then it opens up to the sky. The stone still circles the outside of the room, and a few trees with high-reaching branches have been encouraged to grow strategically—not so close together that they block out the light of the moons or the stars, glittering in the night sky between branches covered with the half-shorn buds of new spring leaves. She steps off the stone onto a floor made of soft, soft grass, into a sitting room—not unlike Andruil’s own chambers, with a table grown from shrubbery where some food has been laid, other imitations of furniture made from living things where a guest might store their belongings.

Beyond a willow tree, its swaying branches wrapped around its own trunk so they do not obscure the opening, there is a single room with a bed covered in furs, another stream of water trickling down the back wall to a deep, clear pool at the far end. Her eyes dart quickly along the curve of the stone for any other break in its structure, any hidden catches that might lead to a small chamber where an attending slave might be expected to sleep.

She looks twice, just to be certain. There are none.

Solas has not followed her into the room just yet—she hears the door close, and then a soft thud of flesh against its surface. Giving her time to prepare the room, she thinks, although there is a traitorous thought in the back of her mind that wonders if she’s so certain about that.

She ignores it, and crosses to the table. She removes the braces on her right arm, thinking the scratching of her metal hand fumbling at the edges of the gold jewellery might offend him. Next are the earrings, heavy all along the length of her ears and the pins in her hair that are giving her an awful headache.

She hears the scuff of his feet on stone as her hands close around the collar, and the catch that secures it. How abruptly it stops as she removes it—and she is reminded of the low, low back of the dress, and how it is bared completely to him now.

He does not move behind her. She cannot even hear him breathing. She turns as she pulls the collar from her neck, looking at him over her shoulder.

He is not staring at her back as she turns to face him—he is looking at her _hair_ , of all things, dark curls falling over the shoulder that now turns away from him. His gaze is relaxed, the ghost of a wistful smile softening the sharp lines of his face into something... rather pleasant, circumstances aside.

Then his gaze flits to the side of her neck now bared to him, and his expression hardens as he stares at the place the collar once lay.

_Ghilan’nain_. A number of curses come to mind—almost to her _lips_ , shocked as she is, and she can feel all the blood drain from her face. The night has been so long and she’s had so much to worry over—she’d forgotten all about the bite mark.

He continues to stare, his expression growing darker with every heartbeat, and she actually considers shoving the collar back on her neck just to make him stop _staring._

Instead, she swallows in spite of the dryness of her mouth and throat. With a shaking hand of flesh and an unnervingly steady one of metal she places the collar on the table before her. She hesitates once before she tears her gaze from the stormcloud brewing over his features. Her heart hammering against her ribcage, her hands drift to the dress’ thin, thin straps, and she moves to slide them off her shoulders.

“Wait—”

The word is a shout in the stillness of the room, and it startles her so badly that she jumps in place. She spares a moment to collect herself—to try to slow the frantic pace her heart has set, furious and tireless under her skin—and obeys, frozen in place by his hurried command. Waiting for the next.

It does not come. Instead he curses, softly, and when she turns to scowl at him his head is resting in his hand.

“ _Ir abelas_ ,” he offers, into his palm. As if, once again, he cannot bear to look at her.

She quirks a brow at him—and lets her expression fall as annoyed and relieved as it will, if he refuses to witness it.

“I will not—” His voice is thick and rough, and he has to pause to clear his throat. He drops his hand and squares his shoulders, but does not quite look at her—he still stands in the shadow provided by the stone entryway, but she can make out the furious flush on his features all the same.

“I did not mean to stare,” he says, slowly, evenly. “I did not mean for my attentions to bring this upon you. I have no intention of—” He blinks, collecting himself once again.

When still he doesn’t look at her, she rolls her eyes.

When he speaks again, his voice is pitched low and gentle. “I have some skill with healing.”

She raises a single brow. “You may do as you like,” she answers, the words clipped and short.

His gaze darts up to hers again and—and his eyes are impossibly wide, his expression fallen. She barely has time to take in the sorrow dragging on his features, the horror flickering in his eyes, before he schools his expression again, his gaze drawn to the stone under his feet.

“I only meant—” He exhales, slowly. The straight line of his shoulders falters, for a moment, before he stiffens again. When he looks up—not directly at her—she cannot read what he is thinking.

“Thank you for a pleasant evening,” he says, breezing past her.

She— _staggers_ , when the only thing that touches her is the air as he moves past. Her metal hand steadies herself on the table, and it is precious heartbeats before she can bring herself to turn, to allow her gaze to follow where he has gone.

The only sight that greets her is the swaying of the willow branches falling over the doorway, the glitter of his armour shining through the gaps in the leaves as he moves deeper into the chambers.

She stands there, rooted in place, until he collapses onto the bed with a sigh—and above them, the leaves broaden and grow tenfold, blocking out the night sky and casting the room into utter darkness.

 

That night, as she does every night, she dreams.

Unlike every night, there are fragments of it that stay with her when she wakes.

There are hands reaching for her—twisted and gnarled, and a face behind them marred by rage and the scarring of something far, far worse.

_Thief_ , he accuses. _Pretender_.

She remembers cold, a cold she has never felt before, pressing in—she can’t move, can’t breathe, it’s as if she’s encased completely in stone and ice, until something _gives_ and she is falling, falling, struck by and striking things she cannot see until she is battered, bloody, both hands of flesh reaching and reaching but she can’t find a handhold, a place to slow her fall.

Someone laughs against her neck—familiar, warm.

A woman lies on a sleeping pallet, a woman with _her nose_ , and she raises trembling hands and moves them, attempting to make patterns. She does not complete them—her hands fall to her side, and the only movement is the rise and fall of her chest that accompanies her struggling, wheezing breaths.

Her arm _hurts_ —every time she falls, every spasm that rips through her, it shoots a line of agony straight from her palm to her jaw. It gets worse the next time, and the next—she feels it in the tips of her ears, in her toes, in the stutter of her heart as it skips a beat.

And she _screams_ , unable to hold it back any longer. Hot tears stream down her face and she thrashes, clutching her arm to her, open gasping sobs escaping her in the space between her tortured screams, where her breaths should be.

Someone is holding her, hushing her, gathering her up in strong, solid arms. She fights him—every movement hurts, every beat of her wretched, battered heart, and there’s something she has to say but she doesn’t remember what.

There is a soft whisper, the gentle glow of a spell. The pain subsides, and she collapses in relief. Allows herself to be carried, limp and docile, and laid to rest somewhere soft, somewhere quiet.

Lips on her temple, tears that aren’t hers falling on her face.

“ _Abelas_ ,” he whispers, pulling away even as she reaches for him. “ _Ir abelas, ma vhenan_.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Season of Too Many Functions is almost upon us, so don't be alarmed about continued radio silence on my end. (Pastry Chef Life)

**Author's Note:**

> Find me on tumblr at [playwithdinos](http://playwithdinos.tumblr.com/) or [dinoswrites](http://dinoswrites.tumblr.com/).


End file.
